Drakov's Daughter
by OhRabbitHeart
Summary: Natalia Romanova. The Red Room. First kill. Memories. Broken things. The Winter Soldier. Odessa. Soviet slug. Natasha Romanoff. Budapest. Clint Barton. Wounds. Trust. TW: Abuse.


Natalia doesn't like the cold, spine tingling creak of the floorboards when she treads across them at night. She freezes multiple times in her effort to advance across the room, wary not to wake her handlers for fear of their wrath. She still bears the marks from her last act of disobedience; what once were bright, red welts have faded to blotchy bruises of purple, blue, and green across her ribcage from front to back and side to side. They had caned her, an act usually left for palms and legs and the soles of the feet. They had wanted to teach her a lesson without breaking the skin. It is very important for tissue to remain intact in this profession. Women are desired more when their flesh is smooth and supple and delicate and unmarred. A girl with silky skin in a world of espionage means she is a willing participant in the truly disgusting games men play. Natalia would be the most willing, the most submissive player imaginable. And this would make her potential truly limitless.

On bare feet, she pads over to the empty mattress Rada once slept on before she woke up for training and never returned to their shared quarters. One of the gentlest souls Natalia had ever met, considering that number dwindles at less than fifty it speaks volumes, she had a soft heart that allowed her to see the good in even the darkest of people. On more than one occasion Rada and Natalia had comforted each other through the coldest nights. But it came as no surprise when Natalia fell asleep alone two nights ago. Rada simply wasn't cut out for this game, and Natalia found herself hoping whatever place she was in now was a happy one instead of just six feet beneath the dirt -or worse- tossed without dignity into a shallow ditch where roaming packs of wild dogs could have a quick meal.

Beneath Rada's mattress is a pile of loose, blank papers and the stub of a pencil. On a few pages are words written in Natalia's hand, thoughts and hopes and dreams. Memories. Anything to keep her from forgetting the truth. Because deep within the Red Room, young girls went to lose remembrances. Already, Natalia has forgotten exactly what she did to get her bruises, she knows only that she deserves them. Soon enough, Rada will be gone as well as tonight's mission. Their handlers find it best when instead of blood and death, pirouettes and arabesques occupy their mind.

Nimble fingers pick up the pencil and a sheet of paper, the digits on her left hand scribbling in clipped sentences the horrors of the day. So lost in her recollections, she doesn't hear the approach nor notice the two silhouettes that stand just inside the gaping maw where a door should be. The girls do not need doors. They are not afforded the luxury of privacy. Dogs need to be monitored at all times.

Ivan waits until she has finished and has replaced her secrets beneath Rada's mattress. He muses that this is a kindness he has just granted her after her exceptional performance this evening. "_**Natalia**_", he says in his gravelly voice, and she jumps at the sound, scrambling away from the bed in hopes he hasn't just seen what she's done. But she knows better. She's much, much smarter than that.

"_**Chto vy delayete, Natalia?**_" _What are you doing? _He watches with a bemused smirk as she scrambles for an answer that never comes. He knows what she's done, knows because countless other girls have attempted the same feat. And failed. "_**Vy znayete luchshe. Vy dolzhny spat', moya dorogaya.**_" _You know better. You need sleep, my dear. _

Natalia, eyes wide, only nods and carefully retraces her steps toward her own bed. However, Ivan's voice stops her once again. "_**Vy ne budete spat' segodnya vecherom.**_"_You will not sleep tonight._ And then he turns to his companion as he makes to leave. "_**Szhigat' stranitsy. Szhigat' matrats. Udalit' yey odezhdu. Bit' yey. Voz'mite yey vniz dlya ochistki.**_"_Burn the pages. Burn the mattress. Strip her. Beat her. Take her downstairs for purification._

And as the companion approaches, she sees the glint of low light dancing off his metal arm. She begs him, pleads with him, pulls at his flesh with her tiny hands as he starts the fire. "_**Zima Soldat**_", she repeats over and over as flames consume her memories and the final scent of Rada. Precious, sweet Rada. Was she allowed a final comfort in this world? Did the man with the metal arm at least make it quick?

"_**Ne delayte etogo!**_"_Don't do this!_ She cries, tears streaking down her cheeks as he readies her bare skin for the rod again, already tender flesh singing with vicious pain. He finds each bruise and makes it count, soulless eyes unseeing. "_**Zima Soldat, pozhaluysta prekratite!**_"_Please stop!_ But he doesn't. And he won't. He has his orders.

Clint pulls her from the dream -the memory-, and it takes her several minutes to recall where she's at. A quaint apartment in Budapest. Barton's, surprisingly. One bedroom shared these past few weeks with her partner of nearly five years. He's looking her over, lifting her shirt to examine her abdomen and everything rushes back to her at once. The nuclear engineer. The drive from Iran to just outside of Odessa when her her tires were shot out and she careened over a cliff. The metal arm holding the gun that released a Soviet slug with no casing straight into her gut. The ghost. The Winter Soldier. The source of tonight's nightmare.

Clint sucks in a breath between clenched teeth and reaches for gauze. "You've ripped your stitches", he chides and goes about staunching the wound while she wipes the sweat from her brow. She's visibly shaken, but thankful he already knows her well enough not to push for answers. She's had a bad dream. It happens. It's something they both encounter too often to question.

"I need you to ask me something," she states, arms braced to lift herself from the bed so he has a better angle. She watches him suture her, his deft fingers working to close what bit of damage she has done. His fingertips gently brush her skin as he works, but her mind is too preoccupied to notice what would normally cause gentle sparks against her flesh.

"Yeah? What's that?" His eyes never leave her wound. He is a mother hen. He's worried about her.

"I need you to ask me about my first kill." Just like Natasha not to out and say what's bothering her. She needs someone to insist she speak. She hasn't quite mastered the concept of a confidant just yet.

Clint finishes closing her up and pulls her shirt down, gunmetal eyes flashing up to connect with hers. There is confusion and concern written in the interweaving threads of his irises. This is something that is bothering her. He obliges. "Who was your first mark?"

"The daughter of a Russian diplomat named Yaromir Drakov." The words flow from her lips as if she's practiced this speech in her head a thousand times, just waiting for the right moment to let it all out. To confide in him her sins. He doesn't have to speak again. She'll take it from here. "There are men who would do anything to protect their family. Take a bullet. Push them from oncoming traffic. Accept any sentence for themselves that would condemn to death someone they love. I was twelve and she was no older than me. When I pointed the gun at her, Drakov didn't move. I know he saw me because those were my orders; '_Make sure he sees you, Natalia. Make him watch_'." Ivan's words on her tongue taste sour and it shows in the way her face screws up in distaste. "I hesitated to be positive I had his attention and then hesitated again waiting for him to push her out of the way. I watched him watching me as I pulled the trigger, and he didn't even consider covering her. She crumpled like a ragdoll and he cowered expecting his turn. And I wanted it to be his turn. But those weren't my orders."

Clint remains still, silently watching as she recounts her past. The confusion is gone from his gaze, but the concern remains. Doubles, really. Natasha has fallen back against her pillow, exhaustion evident in the dark circles under green orbs. "After every kill, they'd sedate us. Wipe our brain. Suppress memories. Replace them with ballet and homework and lies about wonderful parents and privileged upbringings and boarding school. They needed us to keep our sanity until our brains developed enough to handle the objectives given to us. And when I tried to remember, they'd take it all from me. Physically. Mentally. I'd know pain… and then nothing. For a long time, there were holes. Missing pieces."

Clint stands, gently pulling the comforter from beneath her before he covers her. He climbs back into his side of the bed, shimmies beneath the blanket, and reaches for the bedside lamp. In the darkness, he reaches for her, pressing his chest against her back. To his surprise, she does not protest but sighs and inches closer. Normally, she would consider this a weakness. Normally, she wouldn't allow herself to get this close to anyone. But tonight, a wall crumbles, and she's too exhausted to lay out the bricks and mortar.

"You don't have to worry about that anymore, Tasha. You're safe now."

_I'm not_, she thinks. _Not when he's still out there putting bullets through me over and over again._ But she remains silent, eyes closed and hands tucked beneath her pillow. "I know," she says.

Tomorrow, they'll both deny their proximity. Natasha doesn't break and Clint doesn't get serious. But tonight, they'll revel in the comfort of a confidant. In something as elusive as trust.


End file.
